


Miracle on 56th Street

by thisstarvingartist



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Flashbacks, Fluff, IT IS FINISHED, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Power Outage, Yuletide 2014, in which Finch overreacts to subtle and not-so-subtle hints, lotsa fluff, minor hurt/comfort, more than kissing, storm of the century, trapped in the house together, yeah its that trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstarvingartist/pseuds/thisstarvingartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The incoming Christmas season brings along with it a storm the likes of which New York City has never seen; snow stands over four feet high on every street corner, buildings two hundred stories high are invisible through the torrential downpour of snow and hail. Every business and company has been shut down for the foreseeable winter season; not a soul dares wander through the desolation.<br/>Not one, aside from a man with a shovel and a rather cheerful Belgian Malinois.</p><p>(Or: The worst snow storm of the century lays waste to New York as Christmas season draws near, leaving its inhabitants stranded in their homes. Harold Finch suffers a severe bout of claustrophobia. John, as always, comes to the rescue.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Days until Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a thoroughly ambiguous timeline; they have Bear. It’s Christmas—almost. That’s pretty much all you need to know.

\--Prelude--

John Reese was an enigma, and one of the few irresistible puzzles Finch could never quite manage to solve. Of course, he knew everything there was to know about the man; he’d read all the profiles, all the case reports—classified and unclassified—and in essence, he knew exactly who Reese was… on paper.

In reality, the man was much more of a mystery.

When Finch expected him to laugh, he’d only catch a fleeting smile. When he anticipated silence, there was a soft chuckle on the opposite end of the comm. He had a rather annoying habit of sneaking up on him while he was coding. He came to the library almost daily, with a steaming cup of green tea and a donut in his hand, as though he were nothing more than an overzealous intern; like he wasn’t risking his life on a daily basis for complete strangers, like he wasn’t a former international spy presumed dead by every government agency that was even aware of his existence at all.

Finch still found himself caught off guard when he caught Reese studying him, his intense, unrelenting stare boring into him even after Finch had begun staring back, like Finch were as much of a puzzle as Reese was. However, there was a distinct difference between Reese and Finch, when it came to their respective elements of mystery; Finch had to actively work to keep his life private.

It was a challenge to maintain so many countless identities, especially when his current primary identity was under constant scrutiny by not only a man in a suit, but _the_ man in the suit. It had started out brutally, with Finch deflecting a constant barrage of skillfully disguised verbal interrogation techniques; this eventually evolved into a much rarer, occasional inquiry, usually hidden underneath a mask of apparently innocent curiosity. These questions, too, had decreased in frequency, as Reese became less concerned with learning all of Finch’s secrets, and more content to focus on the numbers; though on the infrequent occasion that Finch did let something slip, he watched as Reese latched onto the nugget of information like he was starving for them.

Things between them had become so incredibly ridiculous that Reese had even begun _flirting_ with him, though at first it had been so subtle Finch thought he’d simply been imagining it. Now, he was of the moderately sure mind that Reese was intentionally toying with him.

All of this was completely unexpected when Finch had first taken him on. He was expecting a drunkard, a soldier, an angry man, bitter and dangerous; a monster. Or at least, a threat to his own personal safety, should he get too close. That’s how the rest had been, after all.

Finch had gone through a few possible employees before Reese. All of them had been predictable, to a serious fault.

As far as Harold could tell, John Reese had no faults.

 

\--Three Days until Christmas--

Winter came with a startling harshness, bringing with it snow and sleet and wind up to sixty miles per hour, and Finch spent every spare moment he had between gathering information about their latest number and updating his countless identities preparing for the worst. There were currently three emergency packs hidden throughout the library, and two in the most often used safe houses, and he’d tucked a walkie talkie into Reese’s arsenal, just in case they lost contact during a mission.

“There’s barely six inches of snow on the ground, Finch,” Reese pointed out, as if six inches of snow was comparable to a mildly cold day in August. “If I need to contact you, I can just go out and find you.” Finch spared him a stern look out of the corner of his eye as he downloaded the latest information on their most recent number—a very tiny, elderly woman named Irene Petiski, who was either the ringleader of a very dangerous criminal organization, or being targeted by her bitter ex grandson-in-law for breaking he and his former wife apart two months ago—and printed out an address.

“Even taking into consideration your lack of concern regarding the danger six inches of snow on New York streets poses, this storm is no joke. Hourly snowfall is predicted to increase by almost two hundred percent by midnight, and average wind speed is estimated at seventy-five miles an hour—that’s a new record, Mr. Reese.”

“Then I’ll put on a parka.”

This time, Finch took the time to turn himself fully, pausing in his work to look at Reese with a pointed air of disapproval.

“A parka isn’t going to protect you from quarter-sized hail,” Finch informed him.

Reese smiled blandly at him. “I’ll wear a helmet, too.”

Finch sighed, turning back to his computer. Of course, Reese was not a fool. He knew the dangers of a snowstorm as large as the one predicted to occur that afternoon.

Perhaps it would be best to rephrase that statement; Reese was not a fool—unless it directly involved protecting the life and/or wellbeing of anyone within his general vicinity. In that case, a hurricane larger than all of Manhattan wouldn’t keep him from running straight for the door with nothing but a handgun and a vaguely flirtatious smile.

The storm was particularly tragic, Harold imagined, to those whose largest concern was getting out of the city to visit distant family for the holidays. Three days until Christmas, and already the snow was so heavy it was difficult to make out the buildings half a block away.

“Mr. Reese, I suggest you return to your apartment before the city streets are closed down entirely,” Finch said. “Whatever Ms. Petiski is involved in won’t be taking place in this storm, that’s quite clear.”

“Then you should be heading home too, Harold,” Reese pointed out, and Finch didn’t miss the casual slip-in of his first name in the statement. “You have a farther walk than I do, anyway.”

“Perhaps I do, Mr. Reese,” Finch replied. “It must be difficult to discern distance between here and a place you do not know the location of.”

He could _feel_ Reese smiling at him from across the room, and twisted himself around to glare at him.

“Worth a shot,” Reese said. He didn’t move. They were at an impasse.

In fact, Finch never walked home from the library if he could help it; it was quite a distance, a brownstone house on the opposite side of central park, and it occurred to Finch that he really should be getting home, before the roads closed completely and he would find himself unable to get a taxi.

It was Finch who gave in when his back gave a warning twinge, and he twisted himself right, sighing heavily.

He shut down his computers and affixed several stacks of paper onto the desk while Reese watched, apparently intent on making sure that he was actually going to go home. Finch felt the desire to protest his concern, considered the fact that it wouldn’t make Reese leave any sooner, and placed the last file into place in silence. Reese handed him his jacket and he slipped it on, pressing the elevator button.

Their journey down to the bottom floor was in silence.

As was their departure.

There really wasn’t anything for them to say to one another, anyway.

\--

The weather forecasters had completely missed the mark for the oncoming storm. It was worse. Far, far worse than they had anticipated.

Mountains of snow stood over three feet high on every street corner; buildings two hundred stories high were invisible through the torrential downpour of snow and hail. Every business and company was shut down for the foreseeable future, while the cities inhabitants huddled in their homes, awaiting the storm’s end. A general safety warning had been issued, informing the general public to remain inside until the worst had passed. It seemed a rather superfluous message; who in their right mind would dare leave the safety of their own home in such weather?

Certainly not Harold Finch. He intended to remain indoors until at the very least the end of the week. He also intended to continue his research on Ms. Petiski, because what else was he to do? Curl up on the couch with a mug of steaming hot chocolate, pop a movie into the player, and ignore the storm raging outside?

No, no; what he needed was a distraction; what better distraction than an elderly woman who could possibly be the head of a dangerous New York City mob?

What also proved fairly distracting was the growing ache in the back of his neck; bad weather tended to affect his injuries, he’d noticed, in a way that made work in the winter and fall particularly unbearable.

There was a bang outside the window, and Harold jumped at the sound; what was _that_?

He hazarded a glance away from his laptop to look out the window, to see if he could make out any kind of activity. Another bang sounded, and this time he caught sight of the offender—a piece of hail, roughly the size of a dime, ricocheting off of the glass. Finch’s jaw clicked, and he went back to work.

Irene Petiski was eighty-three; she’d been born in Moscow, Russia, though her mother was an American. They’d moved to the states in her childhood, most likely in hopes of giving her a better life.

Harold rubbed his neck. He considered checking the bathroom cabinet for painkillers, though he wasn’t sure what he had; he preferred avoiding the particularly strong kind he had been prescribed, especially when he was working. However, the ache was growing, as was the hail, by the sound of it, and after another minute’s deliberation he got to his feet and went to the bathroom.

He opened the cabinet door, reaching in and taking out a small, orange bottle. He unscrewed the lid, and two large, blue pills landed softly in his waiting palm. He filled a glass with water, took the drugs with a gulp, and placed the bottle back into the cabinet.

Two should be fine, he thought; more than he’d had in a long while. The drug was strong, and fast acting, so the pain should fade within a few minutes or so.

Irene’s middle name was Gertrude, named after her mother, though she didn’t seem to favor it. She graduated high school at the age of seventeen, and went straight into the workforce as a hairdresser, but her work records seemed to disappear exactly three years later. Her favorite color was either periwinkle, gray, or sea foam green.

The banging on the window grew in frequency and intensity until Harold was forced to his feet, and he crossed the room, drawing the curtains shut. It didn’t help with the sound, but it soothed his nerves slightly; it had certainly been a long time since he’d seen such a wretched storm. He returned to the computer, forcing the memories away.

Irene’s eye color had changed from blue in her youth to a dark, warm brown, and she had more wrinkles on her face than a folded dress shirt. The reason for her work records’ nonexistence was due to her quitting the workforce when she was twenty, to marry a surprisingly rich young man named William Harkin.

It had been half an hour, and Harold’s neck was not feeling any better. In fact, it was feeling worse; much, much worse. The vicious pounding and roaring wind barely a few feet away was not making it any more sufferable.

The last time he’d witnessed a storm this terrible he’d been a child; barely eleven years old.

He got to his feet, took two more pills with a sip of water, and returned to his desk.

It turned out that Irene had an affinity for hairless cats. Her first husband had died when she was thirty-two, and she married again, to a gentleman by the name of Edward Millinger. Her favorite color was definitely periwinkle. She was allergic to parsnips.

The storm of his childhood had been far worse than this; or at least, it had seemed so. Though, to be fair, he’d been stuck in the barn at the time.

She—Irene—didn’t like black olives as much as she liked green; she’d been to the Outer Banks five times; her favorite book was It by Stephen King; her best class in school had been Chemistry. Her second husband died six years ago, and she hadn’t remarried.

A particularly large hail shard slammed against the window with such force Harold jumped. He turned shakily to glance at the window, now shrouded from sight. The whole room was encased in darkness without the natural light, lit only by the blue of Harold’s computer screen. The rest of the house was black, silent. Empty. He was completely alone.

He rose unsteadily to his feet, hurrying to the bathroom. His neck was _killing him_. He swallowed another pill dry, and went back to his desk—with the bottle clutched in his hand.

The barn door had just— _locked_. Just slammed shut, with the wind, and the latch had fell.

Irene had a flare for the dramatic; she’d been the star in her high school’s junior class play production of _Pride and Prejudice_.

He’d tried to unlatch it himself, but it was dark, so dark because of the storm; his father hadn’t known he was inside. And the latch was so big, so heavy.

She had a pink knit sweater, with little yellow flowers and white beads in the middle. It was her favorite.

He shouldn’t have even been inside in the first place. He’d been warned, the barn door was a finicky device. But he hadn’t known; just a boy. Just a little boy.

Her hair was naturally curly.

God, it had been terrible. So _cold_ , so _dark_. And his father would never have found him, would never have known, if the power hadn’t gone out in the house. If he hadn’t gone to get the generator from the barn, and found his son crumpled in the straw beside the tractor, sobbing into his t-shirt—

There was a flicker, and then the power was off, and Harold was thrown back into the darkness, with nothing but the roar of the storm outside the window, slamming down upon him.

He practically fell down the stairs, rushing to the front door, to open it, but it wouldn’t open; he was trapped.

_No._

_No._

_No._

_NO._

Harold scrambled back to his computer, frantically hitting the power button; no response. No power. No heat. No power meant no heat. No power meant no light. And the door, the door was sealed shut by an unimaginable tower of snow.

\--

The power had gone out in Reese’s apartment several hours beforehand; he’d pulled out his emergency flashlight, propped it up on the coffee table, cracked the seal on a bottle of water, and spent some time cleaning up his apartment—which, if he were completely honest, wasn’t actually very messy. He ended up dismantling and cleaning his guns, cross-legged on the floor, with Bear napping behind him on the couch.

Then he heard static emanating from the inside of his gun bag.

He peered in. It was the walkie.

He picked it up, pressing the talk button.

“Finch?”

“Oh God, John, oh God—” Finch was gasping, panting on the other end of the walkie, voice filled with a fear unlike anything Reese had ever heard from the man before.

“Where are you? What’s going on?” Reese said. He was already on his feet, searching for a coat, grabbing his gun, ready to run out into whatever hellish storm awaited him beyond the door. Bear leaped from the couch, ears perked, recognizing Finch’s voice.

“John—please, I need help,” Finch begged. “Please—” There was a thud, a loud clatter; Reese had his hand on the doorknob before he even had a moment to think about shoes.

“I’m coming, Finch, but you have to tell me where you are,” Reese said, on the verge of begging himself. “Finch? Harold?”

“I’m—I’m… oh, oh no…” There was a crackle of static, like Finch was taking a deep breath. And another.

“Harold, talk to me,” Reese pleaded.

“John… Mr. Reese, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” More crackling. “I just… it’s nothing. I’m all right.”

“Finch, tell me where you are,” Reese growled, trying to regain some semblance of control. His hands were shaking. Bear whined pathetically by his side. “I’m coming.”

“No! Please, Mr. Reese, really I’m all right,” Finch insisted, a note of hysteria returning to his voice. “I just… I just startled myself. It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Finch, if you don’t tell me where you are, I’m going to the library,” Reese told him, “And I’ll search the place up and down, and if I find so much as a suggestion of a hint of a _clue_ to an address—and you _know_ I won’t stop looking until I do—then I’ll go back out into that storm and look for you.”

“No, Mr. Reese, it’s _terrible_ out there—” Finch exclaimed, frantic once more. “No, don’t go out. Please. I—I’m fine. I just—panicked.”

“Panicked? About what?” Reese asked.

Finch was silent for a moment. “The… the snow. I don’t like… I’m not fond of storms. My power went out. I—I took too many painkillers—”

“Finch, tell me where you are right now,” Reese started again, slamming the door open with enough force for Finch to hear.

“Mr. Reese! You’ll freeze out there!”

“Finch, I don’t give a damn,” Reese replied.

Of course, Finch knew that he was serious.

“Harold, tell me where you are,” Reese whispered, as soothingly as he could manage.

“West 56th street, brownstone 382,” Finch finally said, and Reese put down the walkie.

“Twenty minutes,” he said to it, standing up and rushing to his closet. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Wait for me. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Four minutes later he was leaving the apartment building swathed in five layers of clothes, a ski mask and a scarf, the fuzzy hood of his parka pulled tightly over his head, a large metal snow shovel tight in his gloved hand, and Bear hooked to a leash at his side, ready for the onslaught. He picked up the walkie on his way out the door, sticking it into a pocket and zipping it closed.

West 56th street was five blocks away. Five blocks in sixteen minutes, with a hellstorm raging all around him and a Belgian Malinois in tow.

Well, he’d gone out into worse.

\--

He reached the brownstone fifteen and a half minutes later, winded and sweating, with Bear shivering slightly at his side. The door was blocked by a good foot and a half of snow, but he could get through that. He’d already begun shoveling, and when the door was exposed enough to swing open he pulled the walkie out of his pocket.

“Harold?” he said. “Harold, are you there?”

There was a crackle of static. “No, no, no—it’s too dark, too cold…”

He’d faded away again, back into hysteria, and Reese had to keep himself from crushing the walkie in his hand in frustration.

“Harold, come in.”

There was a pause. “John?”

“I’m outside. Come open the door.”

“I can’t, no, the door—the door is locked—”

“You can unlock it, Harold,” Reese said, gently. “It’s going to be alright.”

“I can’t, I can’t—” he let out a breathless, desperate sob. “I tried, I can’t. Please, just break the door down, I can’t.”

“Harold, open the door,” Reese said, slamming his fist once against the hard wood. It was too thick; far too thick and heavy for him to kick down, even if he wasn’t tired and weak already, even if his mobility wasn’t so restricted by his gear—

“I can’t, the latch, it’s too heavy—”

“Harold, what latch?” Reese asked.

“The door, I can’t—I’m scared, Dad, please get me _out_ —”

“I’m coming, Harold,” Reese said, dropping Bear’s leash. “Bear, _Wachten_.”

Reese shoveled his way to the nearest window, half blocked by snow, and grabbed the edges, pulling roughly. The wood was too stiff; too cold. He released the edges, and bracing himself, he turned around and slammed his elbow into the glass. Three swift strikes, and the glass shattered.

“ _Hier_ ,” Reese called, and Bear bounded to him. Reese picked the dog up in his arms and ducked into the window, stepping over the shattered glass in heavy winter boots.

“Harold?” he called, placing Bear on the carpet beyond the glass. He ran into the darkness and Reese followed.

That’s how he found Finch; curled on the ground at the foot of the door, cradling his head in his arms, shaking. He was whispering furtively, his voice soft but filled with an unimaginable terror. Reese pulled off the ski mask, knelt down beside him, and brushed his shoulder gently. He looked up, snapping his head back, and Reese flinched for him, certain that he wouldn’t appreciate the sudden movement later.

“Dad?” he said, blankly.

“It’s all right, Harold,” Reese told him, smiling softly. “I’ve got you, now.”

\--

He carried Finch up the stairs with one arm around his shoulders and the other bracing his legs at the knee—it was something he _knew_ Finch would complain about later, but it was that assurance that made him all the more relieved; Finch was going to be okay. He wasn’t now, but he would be.

Reese brought him to the master bedroom, laying him gently on the bed, and Finch clutched at him as he moved to pull away, a flicker of fear in his eyes once more.

“Don’t go,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I’ve got to block up the window,” Reese told him. Finch’s grip on his shirt didn’t retract, however, and he sighed, sitting down at the edge of the bed.

“It’s okay, Harold, I’m not leaving. You’re fine now. I promise, I’m going to keep you safe.”

“John…” Finch breathed, his grip loosening slightly. “John… you came.”

“Of course, Harold,” Reese replied. “I’ll always come for you.”

Finch smiled at that, a dazed, weak smile. “I know. I know you.”

Reese tried to get up again, but Finch still didn’t let him pull away, didn’t allow him to leave the room to fix the window, strip out of his winter gear, find the electric generator he was certain Finch had buried in the basement of the brownstone house, and keep guard on the bottom floor while Finch slept soundly overhead.

“Stay here, John,” Finch urged, tugging at him. “Rest. You deserve a break.”

“In a little bit,” Reese promised, unlocking Finch’s fingers from his coat. “I’ll be right back. Bear’ll keep you company while I’m downstairs.”

“Bear,” Finch said in wonderment, as the dog jumped onto the bed, curling up against Finch’s side and nuzzling his palm. “Oh, good boy. Good boy.”

Reese stood up, leaving the room. He shut the door slowly, hearing Finch’s softly uttered “Thank you, John,” as he left. He smiled, privately, as the door clicked closed.

“You’re welcome, Finch.”


	2. Two Days until Christmas

\--Two Days until Christmas--

Finch awoke in the dark, tucked in bed, with a piercing headache and an unpleasant crick in his neck, and only a very vague memory of the night before. He’d taken far, far too many painkillers. His throat was sore—from shouting, he thought. He remembered faintly that he had been shouting. But why?

The storm roared ferociously from beyond the thick glass windows, and Finch’s eyes fluttered shut as he began to remember; a panic attack. He hadn’t had a panic attack in _years_. And, of course, the medication—that couldn’t have helped much. He remembered, now, yet another reason why he avoided his prescribed extra-strength painkillers: anxiety was a very prominent side effect of the drug.

Bear nuzzled his head beneath his hand, sensing his discomfort, and Finch tussled the dog’s ears affectionately.

Wait; Reese had taken Bear home.

Finch sat up with a jolt—though his back and neck protested furiously—and he searched the dark wildly for his glasses. They were folded on the nightstand on top of a cell phone—Reese’s cell phone, he realized, and upon pressing the power button discovered that the other man had left him a note.

 _‘Turn on the Light_ ,’ the handwritten message, photographed and poised as the lock screen, read. Almost cautiously, Finch reached out for the light switch. The bedside lamp flickered to life, and the tight, knotted feeling that had been gripping in his chest unclenched slightly. One weight off of his shoulders.

But there was another weight just one floor down, standing guard in the living room of one of the very few places Finch actually considered a home.

And he was worried about that.

Finch made his way down the stairs gingerly, every joint even stiffer than usual. It was a trek, and he was winded by the time he reached the bottom; once he got there it became apparent that Reese had turned on every single light in the house, and there was a heavy, low roar from the basement below where the generator was running full blast, a ferocious beast that shook the floor beneath Finch’s feet.

Bear was the first one to approach Reese, who was sweeping the last of what appeared to be—was that _glass?_ —off of the floor and into a dustbin, where he dumped it into the waiting trashcan at his side.

He looked up to see Finch, his dreary, tired expression brightening slightly at the sight of him on his feet. Finch shifted awkwardly as Reese rose, taking a cautious half step forward, a small, wry smile curling the ends of his lips.

“Morning, Finch,” he said. “Sorry about the window.”

“Mr. Reese—” Finch took a breath, willing the blush creeping up the back of his neck to fade away. “Mr. Reese, I am very sorry for last night. I wasn’t—.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Reese waved off his apology, picking up the trashcan. “Bear missed you.”

The dog rubbed his nose affectionately against Finch’s palm in agreement. Finch scratched behind Bear’s ears with a silent sigh of relief.  It would be easier on both of them, of course, to simply brush the entire incident under the rug, as it were—it seemed neither of them wanted to discuss his rather horrific breakdown.

“… How long was I asleep?” Finch asked eventually.

“Fourteen hours,” Reese replied. “It’s nine o’clock.”

“Good god,” Finch sighed, rubbing his temples. He hadn’t slept that much at one time since—actually, he wasn’t sure of the last time he’d last slept so long. Certainly before college. _Long_ before college. It was an obscene amount of time for one to be sleep, really.

Finch followed Reese to the kitchen, and watched him replace the trashcan underneath the kitchen sink. There was a pile of dripping wet winter clothes in a pile in the corner of the room, where Reese had stripped down to his usual suit; he was ever so slightly more rumpled than usual, given the amount of layer’s he’d piled on before coming to Finch’s aid.

Once again Finch felt his nerves twitching at the realization that while he’d been asleep, Reese had been awarded free reign to investigate every square inch of his house. Of course, Finch had several townhouses and luxury apartments scattered across Manhattan—it just so happened that this one he favored above the others. And now, Reese knew where it was. That… that was a problem.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Reese—they’d been through too much together for him to maintain any kind of semblance of wariness around the man; but, still. It was a new step to allow him in his home. He kept secrets there—secrets not even Nathan Ingram had been allowed to learn. It was hard for a private man such as Finch to accept that now, not only did Reese now know where he preferred to live, but he had been given a good fourteen hours essentially alone inside, during which time he could have done practically anything, seen everything.

Curiously, Reese seemed every bit as uncomfortable with being in Finch’s house as Finch was having him in the house. He seemed actively to be folding in upon himself, attempting to take up as little space as possible, arms tight against his sides in what may have been an effort to appear nonthreatening. Of course, his mere existence was unequivocally threatening; simply by existing he exuded a raw, powerful intensity too prominent to ignore. The near predatory smile on his face wasn’t helping to make him seem less fearsome. Finch tried to appreciate the fact that he was trying.

“I suppose I should be, well…” Finch realized that Reese was probably about to offer to _leave_ , of all things, if the way he was eyeing the soaking wet pile of winter clothes laying on the floor tiles was anything to judge by. That—that was ludicrous. He couldn’t—the snow was still falling, for goodness sake. If he thought Finch would be as cruel as to send him back out into that raging storm, discomfort at his presence aside, he was seriously in err.

But before he could reply a growl not unlike the kind Bear emitted when he was hungry suddenly sounded through the house. Oh, wait.

Reese glanced down in surprise at his stomach and Finch discovered yet another similarity between the four-legged beast and his unusual employee.

“Mr. Reese… have you eaten?” Finch knew very well that Reese hadn’t slept since he’d arrived, because that just wasn’t the sort of thing that he would do when someone was under his protection. But certainly, over the course of fourteen hours spent inside Finch’s house, he had to have done _something_ to keep himself sustained.

Reese looked unnerved. “I… I wouldn’t…”

It was then that Finch realized he’d been an idiot to think that Reese would ever take advantage of a moment of his own weakness to exploit his secrets. For god’s sake, he wouldn’t so much as open the refrigerator for fear of discovering Finch’s preferred brand of orange juice.

“Would you mind joining me for breakfast, Mr. Reese?” Finch asked finally, breaking a hole into the awkward silence that had surrounded them.

Reese looked up at him with evident confusion, eyes wide like a puppy’s, unsure of whether he was being offered a treat or punished for getting fur on the couch.

Finch went to the stovetop, flicking on the electric burner and pulling out a pan. “I’m not New York’s finest chef, but I am somewhat proficient at scrambled eggs.”

He turned to face Reese with the full carton in his hand, and he was staring at Finch like he was a whole new species. Finch gestured to the table.

“Please, sit.”

John sat.

Finch could feel the other man’s eyes on him as he scrambled the eggs, added a splash of milk, and poured the liquid into the sizzling pan. It was unusual when he caught Reese off guard, and it was hard not to savor the moment as he mixed the eggs with a deft hand. He allowed himself a quick, hidden smile while he was looking away.

“Thank you, Harold,” Reese said as Finch placed the full plate in front of him with a fork, taking the seat adjacent to him.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Reese,” Finch replied.

Bear, intrigued with the happenings in the kitchen, sniffed at Reese, as though he too couldn’t quite believe that he was there, in Finch’s townhouse, sitting at the kitchen table. Reese reached down to ruffle the dog’s ears, and his stomach growled plaintively once more. He glanced at Finch, searching his face for some confirmation that he was allowed to begin eating.

Finch had barely realized that he’d been clenching his fork in his fist before he saw the look, and primly fixed his grip, dipping the utensil into the eggs and bringing it up to his lips.

With an undisguised flash of relief, Reese proceeded to devour the entire plate in what couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds.  Unable to mask his shock, Reese caught Finch’s bewildered stare and ducked his head, embarrassed.

Finch reached across the table and took Reese’s empty plate, trading it for his own. Reese looked up at him in surprise.

“I can always make more, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, instead of admitting that his stomach was still slightly too unruly to be filled. With a grateful dip of his head, Reese dug into Finch’s plate as well.

“… How did you seal the window?” Finch asked, after a long stretch of time wherein the only sounds were Reese eating and Bear snuffling in his lap for scraps.

He stood up with the empty plate and turned to place it in the sink; Reese attempted to slip Bear a bite of egg secretly while his back was turned. Finch saw him, but said nothing.

“I didn’t, really,” Reese said, swallowing a mouthful of eggs between his words in a way most uncouth for a former secret agent. “I blocked it with a few trash bags and some blankets. I’ll have to come over and install a new frame once the storm blows over.”

“… Ah, I see.” He stared down at the single dish laying in the sink. The plate was suddenly joined by another, and Finch jumped slightly, turning to look up at Reese. Reese loomed over him in his usual way, just within the brackets of his personal space, like a shadow.

 “You haven’t decorated.”

Finch blinked owlishly at him. “What?”

“Christmas is in two days, Finch; aren’t you going to celebrate the holidays?”

“With whom, Mr. Reese?” Finch inquired, backing away from the sink and, by association, Reese. “As you are well aware, I’ve been rather busy with keeping up to date with our numbers.”

“You’ve got to make time, Finch,” Reese replied, and Finch arched an eyebrow at him.

“I take it your apartment is thoroughly decked for the holidays, then?”

Reese shrugged. “I don’t have any Christmas decorations.”

“And what makes you think—” Finch stopped himself, suddenly recalling the number of boxes stored in the basement, where Reese doubtlessly had found on his search for the electric generator.

They weren’t his, exactly; the previous owner of the house had left them behind, and with no forwarding address, Finch had never bothered to rid himself of them. He rarely entered the basement, as it was, and it had conveniently slipped his mind that the decorations had even been there in the first place.

“… I suppose I don’t have an acceptable excuse,” Finch muttered, and Reese smiled triumphantly. “Aside from the fact that, as I mentioned before, I don’t have anyone to celebrate the holidays with.”

“Well,” Reese said, shrugging again, and Finch stared at him. Because, well, yes, they were technically going to be spending the holidays together, though it was purely by accident that such a situation had occurred, and it was really quite ridiculous the shine Reese had in his eyes at the thought of decorating Finch’s townhouse for the holidays.

Utterly absurd.

Finch sighed. “I suppose leaving them downstairs would be a waste,” he admitted, and Reese’s entire form lit up with a new task to occupy his time, and Finch really did try to mask the smile that skittered across his face when he saw it.

“I have work to attend to,” Finch said suddenly, intent on escaping before Reese roped he too into the decorating process. “You clearly know where the decorations are. My apologies for not having a tree.”

“It’s all right, Finch,” Reese smiled. “I’ll figure something out.”

Finch hurriedly excused himself from the room, climbing the stairs to the second floor and closing himself in his office.

\--

“ _Just hear those sleigh bells ring-a-ling, ting-ting-ting-a-ling tooooo; come on, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with youuuuuu._ ”

Finch’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. He shouldn’t, oh he really shouldn’t. Whatever Reese was doing, he didn’t want to know. It would be far better for him to remain in the office, continue his research.

He stood up from his desk and followed the sound to the bottom floor.

“Mr. Reese, what on earth…”

Finch trailed off, looking around with a slack-jawed awe. The entire bottom floor was swathed in silver and green tinsel, lights strung meticulously along the window frames and banister. The most surprising thing, possibly, was the fern decorated with plastic ornaments and Christmas lights, placed in the corner of the living room beside the lit fire place. An ominous looking stalk of mistletoe hung above the entrance to the kitchen.

“Where is that music coming from? I thought all the radio towers were down.”

Reese poked his head around the corner, and Finch startled at the sight; he was—good lord, he was wearing a Santa hat.

He smiled. “I have twenty-nine hours’ worth of Christmas music downloaded on my cell. Thought it’d set the mood.”

“The _Christmas_ mood, Mr. Reese?” Finch shook his head. “I fear that I have made a terrible mistake allowing you to decorate for the holidays.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Finch,” Reese said. “Personally, I’m having a wonderful time.”

Finch’s gaze flickered back up to the mistletoe. “You certainly seem to be expecting to.”

Finch had seen Reese smile before—it wasn’t an entirely unusual sight. However, generally, there was a bit more of a secretive, toying tint to it. But this smile seemed much more… genuine. It didn’t feel like he was pulling for information, or goading. Well, perhaps he was goading a bit. That hat was really quite ridiculous.

Finch eyed him warily. “I haven’t come down to join you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s alright, we’re almost finished,” Reese said.

“We?”

Bear came bounding into the hallway to join them, tail wagging and collar jangling with a multitude of tiny golden bells.

“Ah.” Reese smiled, brightly.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“I suppose. Why?”

“I was thinking I could make us something for lunch.”

“I have a lot of work to do.”

“Hard to work on an empty stomach.”

Finch’s mouth quirked upwards slightly. “I suppose that’s true.”

\--

Forty-five minutes later, Finch was working in the kitchen with a laptop and Reese was pouring the remnants of their chicken soup into a sealable container. Normally, he would be entirely enraptured in his work, too engrossed in the work at hand to notice what was happening around him; however, he couldn’t help but occasionally look up to observe Reese, who was silently leaning from side to side, foot to foot. It took roughly two minutes for him to realize that Reese was swaying to the music.

“ _Radiant beams from thy holy face; with the dawn of redeeming grace_.”

“I was not aware that you were such a holiday enthusiast,” Finch said eventually, sensing the cloying smile from the other man as he placed the soup into the fridge.

“What can I say,” he replied. “It’s a magical time of year.”

Finch sniffed. “If you say so.”

Reese turned away from the stove, approaching him casually. He didn’t stiffen until Reese’s hand reached his shoulder, a soft grip from behind.

“Come on, Finch,” Reese murmured teasingly. “Have some fun.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much left for me to have,” Finch said, sarcastically, as he gestured around the room. “You’ve already finished decorating the house.”

“I’m sure there’s something else we can do to get in the Christmas spirit.” Reese smiled, leaning over Finch and stretching out his arm to skip to the next song.

“ _Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock! Jingle bell swing and jingle bell ring!_ ”

“May I have this dance?” Reese asked sweetly.

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said in warning, reluctantly allowing Reese to pull him to his feet. “This is highly inappropriate. Don’t forget, I am technically your employer.”

“I’ll be fun, Harold.”

Finch suddenly found his arms wrapped around Reese’s neck, their bodies pulled tightly together. It was sudden, unexpected, and Finch attempted to pull away, cheeks flushing brightly.

“There are certain logistical issues with regards to my dancing skills,” Finch pointed out, fingers clenching Reese’s sleeves. “I do have a limp, if you recall.”

“Don’t worry,” Reese purred, arms tight and secure around Finch’s waist as he led him around the kitchen, holding most of his weight off of his legs. “I have a solution for that.”

“Mr. Reese—!”

They were suddenly spinning around the room with Bobby Helms singing in the background, and Finch was reduced to a giggling mass in Reese’s arms, Bear barking and howling with fervor beneath them. He could feel Reese’s breath, warm and familiar against his ear, and a warmth blossomed within him, like a wave of heat through the frozen tundra outside.

He pulled back to look up at Reese; the expression on his face was so gentle and young, like holding Finch had somehow erased all the years of pain and suffering he’d endured; like he was happy. He resisted the urge to reach up, run his fingers along Reese’s jawline.

From such close proximity, Finch could clearly see the faint purpling bags hanging underneath this baby blue eyes. When had he last slept? Certainly he’d been awake for at least thirty hours. Finch turned his head away, pulling himself out of Reese’s arms.

“You really should get some rest, Mr. Reese,” Finch told him shortly. “There’s a spare bedroom on the second floor; third door to the left.”

“I’m fine, Finch—” Reese started, earning a caustic glare from the other man.

“I am aware that your body can endure an exceptional amount of abuse, Mr. Reese, but that doesn’t change the fact that you look like you’re about to collapse on my kitchen floor. You’ll have to get a bit of rest sometime before this storm lets up; it may as well be now.”

Reese bowed out, conceding, a soft smile playing at his lips. “Alright, Finch. I’ll be upstairs.”

He left the room silently, slipping out like a ghost, and Finch was left alone with Bear sitting at his feet, staring up at him.

\--

The storm lessened considerably, or at the very least the wind had—snow still was falling in thick sheets onto the street, making it impossible to say when they would be able to escape.

No, leave. They didn’t need to escape. Bear sighed in his bed underneath the computer desk, content to sleep through the storm should it last a day or another week. Finch found himself almost jealous of the dog’s lack of concern.

Too tense to remain at his desk, Finch got to his feet, stepping out of the office and into the hall. He was usually quite good at ignoring distractions; this storm, however, was one of the few things that he couldn’t quite block from his perception. It was automatic, really, after the incident on the farm when he was a boy. He wasn’t quite surprised now that it had affected him so badly.

What surprised him now was what was keeping him from being so affected again, as the storm raged on just beyond the walls.  It was the presence of another person in the brownstone house. It was _Reese,_ asleep in the guest room. He eyed the door conspicuously for several minutes.

After a brief, internal battle on the wisdom of sneaking up on a sleeping spy, Finch cautiously inched open the guest room door and peered in.

It was dark, with the lights off and the curtains drawn, but even in the dark Finch could make out Reese’s sleeping form sprawled out on the bed. He looked like he’d simply collapsed on the bed the moment he reached it; his shoes were still on, and his jacket as well, though that at least looked like he’d made an abbreviated attempt to remove it. The Santa hat—well, Finch imagined that had fallen off on the way down to the mattress. He was snoring softly.

Finch could imagine the handgun tucked securely in his palm beneath the pillow, and found the image oddly comforting. Reese was there to protect him, as always. Even though it had been maddening at first, his dogged insistence at keeping Finch safe along with the numbers was a habit he’d picked up automatically, and one he clearly had no intention of breaking. And, somewhat reluctantly, Finch had allowed him to do so, so long as the numbers remained top priority in a life or death situation. Reese promised that it would.

Finch hoped quite desperately that he would keep to the promise.

Reese shifted in his sleep, and Finch winced at the thoroughly unpleasant position he was in; legs hanging over the edge of the bed, one arm tucked tightly under his head, the other half caught in the sleeve of his jacket, trapped under his stomach. He was certainly going to wake with a dead arm, Finch thought with a frown.

“Honestly, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, exasperated, and entered the room. He walked to the bed, careful to slide his hand across the bed and rest the tips of his fingers gently on Reese’s arm. Reese twitched, slightly, but did not awaken, and Finch pulled his arm out from beneath him with only minor effort.

Reese grunted and mumbled incoherently as Finch worked him out of his jacket and removed his shoes, but crawled underneath the covers at only the slightest goading. He curled up beneath the heavy comforter, releasing a low, contented sigh.

Finch brushed the back of his hand along Reese’s forehead, and watched him relax visibly into the touch. He smiled minutely, and tucked the blanket underneath Reese’s chin.

“You really should take better care of yourself,” Finch whispered to him, receiving a soft grunt in response.

He straightened, smoothing down his jacket, and turned to leave the room.

“Harold.”

Finch froze, very cautiously turning around to face Reese. He was still sleeping, soundly, eyes closed and oblivious. After a moment’s hesitation, Finch left the room, and the door closed silently.

He really should be getting to bed, too.

\--

Reese couldn’t deny that he had been a bit disappointed that Finch wouldn’t be decorating the townhouse with him; that wasn’t to say that he was surprised. In truth, he had been pleased that Finch agreed to let him decorate at all. He’d seen the boxes, and an inexplicable eagerness nearly overwhelmed him. When was the last time he had decorated for Christmas? When had been the last time he’d _wanted_ to do something so… domestic? But the desire to light up the brownstone house with Christmas lights had been so strong that he turned on every regular light on the bottom floor he could find to brighten up the house, and hoped that Finch would buy into it.

He did. Reese tried to hold in his excitement.

Four hours later, he was dancing around the kitchen with Finch wrapped up in his arms like an early Christmas gift, his face buried into Reese’s shoulder as he laughed helplessly. It felt so natural, so right, holding Finch, protecting him and giving him joy. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so happy just to _be_.

And then, as he should have expected, Finch pulled away, receded back into his shell and directed Reese out of his line of sight, an unwanted distraction from his important work. Reese didn’t blame him. He knew that all he was to Finch was a mildly inconvenient, occasionally sufferable distraction from the real world; a tool at work, an unexpected anomaly at home. He’d done his best to keep out of Finch’s personal affairs, once he realized just how much Finch really meant to him. And suddenly finding himself surrounded by artifacts from Harold’s past—photographs of strangers, hand-knitted blankets, useless trinkets that were too old and damaged not to hold some sort of sentimental value—was a temptation so horrible it drove him insane. He wanted to look into every nook and crevice, explore every inch of Harold’s past, learn everything about him and who he really was.

And at the same time, he didn’t. He wanted every shred of information to come straight from Finch, to know that everything he learned was another piece of the puzzle willingly given, openly served to him because Finch _wanted_ him to have it. Because knowing something because Finch wanted him to know made the knowledge so much more precious.

He was so exhausted when Finch sent him away that he barely had the energy to shut the door and draw the blinds before his head hit the pillow and he disappeared from the world.

He dreamed that, in the night, Finch came into the room and tucked him into bed. He felt the briefest of caresses on his forehead, a gossamer touch that warmed him to his very core, and he smiled softly to himself.


	3. One Day until Christmas/Christmas Eve

\--One Day until Christmas--

The next morning Finch was roused from his slumber by the stench of smoke.

He launched out of bed, rushing down the stairs to reach the smoke alarm blaring in the hallway, and violently pulled out the batteries. The high-ceilinged townhouse looked as though it was preparing for a storm _inside_ , with thick gray tendrils of smoke clinging tightly to the roof like angry clouds. With great caution Finch peered around the corner of the doorway and into the kitchen.

Reese was waving an oven mitt vigorously over the oven, swearing under his breath, while Bear growled in confusion at the stove from the corner of the room. Finch had to bite back a soft laugh as Reese rather ungracefully opened the oven and pulled out a tray of severely blackened black lumps of… what appeared to be literal coal.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Finch asked, and Reese jumped, reeling around to see Finch for the first time.

“What?”

“It seems like you’ve made a hearty batch of coal,” Finch indicated the tragic looking cookie tray, “and since I’m the only one that will be around for the holidays, I assume they must be for me. Unless Bear has done something to get himself on your Naughty list.”

“I—no, I’m—” he scrambled to stand in front of the cookies, looking firmly caught between terrified and embarrassed. “It’s… I tried to make cookies, I don’t—I clearly didn’t think this through.” He gritted his teeth.

Finch adjusted his glasses studiously, the faintest traces of a smile on his face. “It’s quite all right, Mr. Reese.” Reese’s shoulders sagged in relief.

“I don’t think you could if you tried, anyway,” he said.

Finch tilted his head. “Could what?”

“Could… make the Naughty list,” Reese clarified, fumbling when Finch eyeballed him with evident skepticism. “You couldn’t possibly—there’s nothing you could… I mean, you’re too… nice,” he finished, awkwardly. Finch blinked at him.

“You do realize that I’ve done terrible things and risked countless lives for the sake of an artificial intelligence,” Finch said.

“No, I—I don’t think that really matters, in the whole grand scheme of things. It’s—it’s about inner goodness; having genuine intentions of good. And you… you’re definitely not on the Naughty list,” Reese told him. Now he just looked sheepish.

Finch nodded, slowly. “Well, if that’s the case, I think everyone in this room has made the Nice list.”

It was Reese’s turn to blink, startled by the response.

Finch did not allow him to dwell on the acknowledgement for long. He coughed, heavily. “Now, Mr. Reese, that isn’t to say what you’ve just made a very large step in the right direction to get yourself _off_ of it. Let’s get this smoke out of the house—and quickly.”

They spent the next half hour clearing the house of smoke by throwing open windows for exceptionally short periods of time, and slamming them back shut before the snow could find its way in. The temperature dropped so drastically that Finch was forced to change out of his thin bedclothes and into a pair of sweatpants and one of his older MIT hoodies. He returned to the bottom floor just as Reese slammed the final window back shut, and he turned to face Finch, opening his mouth to speak. Whatever he was about to say was lost when he saw what Finch was wearing, his jaw falling slack.

“Here,” Finch said, tossing him another sweater, which he only barely caught. “I imagine you must be cold.”

“I… thanks,” he eventually managed. Finch made his way to the living room to light the fire, well aware that Reese was still staring at him.

He knelt down in front of the fireplace, joints aching in protest, and began balling up pieces of newspaper and tossing them inside. Barely a minute later Reese was beside him, stacking kindling. They prepared and set the fire in a silence Finch could only label as companionable, and as the tiny orange flames grew and consumed the crumpled papers and tiny stakes, he found himself more inclined to lean to his left than forward for warmth.

Reese got up first and helped Finch to his feet, and was surprised for the third time that day when Finch looked at him seriously and said, “I believe it’s time for us to bake some _real_ cookies, don’t you think, Mr. Reese?”

\--

Of course, there was no secret baking talent hidden within either of them; Finch pulled out a cookbook almost as thick as it was long, and dropped it onto the kitchen table with a hefty _whump_.

“What kind would you like to make, Mr. Reese?” Finch asked, gesturing to the book. “I’ll dig up the necessary ingredients while you choose.”

They made chocolate chip, snicker doodle, oatmeal raisin, and gingerbread. Reese was floored by the amount of cookie making supplies Finch had hidden in his pantry. Finch merely shrugged at him.

“It is best to stockpile in case there is an emergency, Mr. Reese,” Finch informed him.

“A cookie baking emergency?” Reese inquired, a soft grin creeping on his face.

“Please, Mr. Reese. Let’s change the subject.”

“Alright. So, if I hadn’t come over, what would you be doing for Christmas?” Reese asked.

Finch frowned minutely. “I would be doing more extensive research on our latest number. Which I really should be getting back to, by the way.”

“Is it really safe to leave Bear and I in charge of the oven?” Reese asked innocently, indicating the timer. Finch scowled at him, but didn’t reply.

“And what about you, Mr. Reese? How would you be spending the holiday, had I not unexpectedly dragged you out into that wretched storm and forced you to break into my house?”

“You didn’t force me, Finch. I was happy to come.”

“Were you, really?” Finch replied. “Horrific bout of hysteria aside; are you really happy to be here?”

“I’m always happy to spend time with you, Harold.”

Finch stared at him, puzzling. Reese returned his gaze unwaveringly, something faint and unidentifiable in his eyes.

“…Alright. Regardless, if I hadn’t brought you here, you would be at home. What were your plans, Mr. Reese? I certainly hope that I didn’t interrupt anything terribly exciting.”

“Actually, I was going to watch _A Christmas Carol_ with Bear on ABC,” Reese told him. Finch eyed him doubtfully, but he seemed genuine. It had been several years since Finch had watched that particular holiday film; though, to be fair, he hadn’t been free on Christmas for several years. He imagined that this would be one of the first Christmas vacations Reese had experienced in a long time, as well. He wondered if there was some irony that they would be spending the holidays in the same way they did every normal day: with one another.

“And for dinner?” Finch queried.

“I had a Hungry Man in the freezer,” Reese replied.

“A _what_?”

Reese laughed. “A tv dinner, Finch. You went to college; don’t tell me you’ve never had a frozen dinner.”

“Of course I—” Finch sighed. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now. You’re here, and we have plenty of soup left for lunch. Unfortunately, your Hungry Man will have to remain uneaten for a while longer.”

“That is unfortunate.” Reese smiled. Finch returned the expression, cautiously.

They ate lunch in the kitchen and bantered about the effectiveness of different surveillance techniques, and by the end Reese had to admit that it was hard to beat a supercomputer that could see literally almost every corner of New York City, but Finch was forced to concede when Reese reminded him that a person actually _could_ see in those blind corners; albeit with a lesser chance of accuracy in their observations.

The conversation slowly moved to the holiday season after Finch pulled out a bottle of Merlot and poured each of them a large glass. Reese sipped at the wine, grimacing slightly, and Finch’s mouth quirked.

“Not a fan of wine, Mr. Reese?”

“I’m more into whiskey,” Reese agreed, with a smirk. “But you already knew that, Finch.”

“Of course I did,” Finch said. “Unfortunately, I did not anticipate your coming over, or else I would have prepared accordingly.”

“This is fine,” Reese insisted, and took another sip as if to prove his point.

“I was going to get you something,” Reese said suddenly, after an extended period of unexpectedly pleasant silence.

Finch blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“For Christmas. I wanted to buy you something, but I didn’t know what to get.” He smiled, somewhat sardonically. “It wouldn’t have been a surprise, anyway; you would have seen me getting it.”

“Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t actively watch your every move,” Finch replied, sordidly. “Besides, it’s the thought that counts. In fact, I had planned on getting something for you as well.”

Reese looked up at him, clearly surprised. “You were?”

“Indeed. But I was caught; I couldn’t decide which would be more suitable: a sterling silver wristwatch, or a bulletproof vest. Obviously, the latter has more practical uses considering your field of employment, but I had a feeling that you’d be more likely to use the first, if either. Mr. Reese, are you all right?”

Reese had his face buried in his hands, propped up on the table, and there were a few worrying moments Finch suffered before he realized that Reese was _laughing_.

“Really, Mr. Reese,” Finch said reprovingly, but Reese was lost, grinning helplessly at the table and snickering. Finch hid his own private smile behind his wine glass.

Things really heated up between them when Reese admitted halfway through his second glass that, to Finch’s great chagrin, he had never seen _It’s a Wonderful Life_.

“How have you never seen it?” Finch demanded, while Reese raised his free hand in surrender.

“I just never have,” he said.

“Well that’s simply unacceptable, Mr. Reese. It’s the holidays, for goodness sake! You can’t just _not_ see one of the most iconic holiday films in American history during its holiday!” He stood up, lifting his glass and carrying it with him to the living room.

Reese followed him slowly into the room and watched as Finch prepared the dvd player, waving his hand haphazardly towards the couch.

“Please sit, Mr. Reese. I’ll be right over.”

There was a small possibility that he’d had too much wine for the situation; not such an extreme amount to say that he was intoxicated, but certainly enough to make him a little braver than usual. Besides, he hadn’t taken so much as an aspirin since Reese had arrived, so he thought that it was probably completely acceptable that he have a few glasses to relieve his aching neck.

He stood up, dvd player ready and remote in hand, and turned around, stopping short when he saw Reese sitting dead center on the couch, cradling his wine glass in one hand and the bottle in the other.

There was no good way for Finch to avoid sitting directly beside him, and after the slightest hesitation he took the seat to Reese’s right. Reese lifted the wine glass and he turned to face him, questioningly.

“Thought we’d top off,” Reese suggested, and reached the neck of the bottle to hover over Finch’s wine glass. Finch did not protest, and his glass was filled, and with as little visible restraint as he could manage he settled back into the couch and pressed play.

The movie, as Finch remembered from his youth, thoroughly enjoyable. That must have been what was distracting Reese so much that he didn’t realize he’d lifted his arm and draped it over the back of the couch, behind Finch. And it was the wine, Finch was sure, that allowed him to lean back, just enough for his shoulders to brush Reese’s sleeve.

He had no excuses left, however, for when he leaned into Reese’s body and allowed the man’s arm to creep silently around his shoulders, thumb rubbing tiny circles against his shoulder. And when Reese’s head came to rest on his cheek and his eyes fluttered closed, well. There really was no room left for him to protest his innocence, at that point.

\--

They were awoken by a gust of wind so heavy it blasted the makeshift barrier Reese had formed back into the living room, followed by a vicious onslaught of snow and ice.

They both snapped awake, and Finch was only vaguely aware of Reese’s arm unwrapping itself from him as he got to his feet and ran to the window, pulling the blankets back up to cover the gaping hole in the wall.

“Mr. Reese, you can fix that later,” Finch said, getting up and placing his hands on Reese’s arms, pulling the other man back from the window and out into the hall.

He slammed shut the French doors to the living room and fixed the bolt, locking them out of the storm. He was shivering. Or perhaps it was just nerves. He couldn’t keep his hands still; Reese was standing close behind him, reaching out to envelope Finch’s trembling fingers in his palms.

“It’s all right, Finch,” Reese said, softly. “I’ve got you. It’s all right.”

Finch’s eyes rested on the image of Reese’s thumb gently rubbing the side of his hand, their bodies mere inches apart. Finch looked up at him, eyes wide.

“John…”

John stared at him, hands tight on his, and Finch’s gaze flickered upwards. They were standing together in the kitchen entrance. The mistletoe. He’d completely forgotten.

“We’ve… we’ve done quite well ignoring the purpose of that,” Finch said, and John dragged his gaze away for a moment to look up, see the mistletoe for himself. “We’ve walked underneath it several times.”

“Oh.” John looked back down at him.

He looked so open, so fragile, staring at Finch, like he was his whole world, and it made him feel so light and feathery. For a moment, he didn’t think of the storm raging inside his living room, because it didn’t really seem to matter. All that mattered were John’s warm hands clasped around his own, and his parted, soft lips so close they made him cross eyed to look at.

The clock in the kitchen buzzed. It was midnight.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Finch mumbled, and John leaned in, pressing their lips together.

It was like someone had thrown a switch, it was so sudden that Harold realized what had happened. Of course, it had been creeping up on them for a long time, once he finally allowed himself to see it; John’s lips were warm and soft on his, a gentle reminder that he was not alone, that he was not unloved and lonely on Christmas Eve. Because John was there, and he wanted to be, somehow, because why else would he be pressing his mouth closer, massaging his hands, sighing into him like it’s all he’d ever wanted to do?

Finch yanked himself away with a gasp, stumbling out of the doorway.

“John, I—Mr. Reese—” his heel hit the first step, and he looked back. “We really shouldn’t. I’m sorry. It’s late; we should be getting to bed.”

“Okay,” Reese said, either too dazed or too drunk or too tired to really understand what had happened, and oh _God_ Finch hoped beyond hope that he wouldn’t remember what happened the next morning.

“Finch, you don’t have to—”

“Good night, Mr. Reese,” Finch said firmly, turning around and rushing up the stairs to the bedroom. He locked the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Oh God.

Oh God; what had he _done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the others; I hope it's still alright!))


	4. Christmas Eve/Christmas Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS not a G-rated fic anymore. I don't think many of you will be disappointed about that.

\--Christmas Eve/Christmas Day—

“Finch, you don’t have to—”

“Good night, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, before he climbed the staircase as quickly as his injuries would allow and disappeared through his bedroom door. Reese slumped against the wall, breathless, shell shocked; he’d _kissed_ Finch. He’d actually, really _kissed Harold Finch_.

He’d tasted of wine and chocolate chip cookies and something soft and natural, something so unique and incomparable to any other flavor Reese could only think that it was Finch. That it was Harold.

And then, just as he felt Harold’s walls crumbling away, felt him lean into the touch and just when he thought that maybe, maybe he actually felt about Reese the same way Reese felt about him—

“Harold,” he croaked at the empty hallway in front of him. No, he couldn’t leave things like this.

Finch had to know that nothing would change. That despite how John felt, no matter what happened, he would never let things change between them.

John needed him to know.

He climbed the stairs and raced down the hall, pressed his palms against the cold, hard oak blocking him from the man he loved. He pressed his forehead against it.

“Harold,” John repeated, softly. There was silence on the other side of the door, so John raised his voice, just slightly.

“Harold.”

There was quiet shuffling on the other side of the door, and John let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in.

“I just wanted you to know… Nothing will change. Nothing has to change. I won’t—I’ll always be here for the numbers. I swear, I won’t let this get in the way of what we have. I just…”

He should stop. He should just leave it at that, let Harold know that nothing would be different between them. But he _couldn’t_.

“…I just need you to know how important you are. You saved my life. More than once. And you… you gave me a reason to live again.”

But, but… no, he couldn’t do this. He _shouldn’t_ , because Finch didn’t _deserve_ that. He was there for Finch to use, to serve him and protect him and protect the numbers and be what Finch wanted him to be. He wasn’t supposed to let his feelings for this beautiful, generous man cloud his judgment.

“I know I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve to be with someone as quiet and kind and brilliant as you. But you mean so much to me. And you have to understand that I would never— _ever_ —ask you for anything. And I’ll always be here for the numbers. I swear, nothing will change if you don’t want it to. I… I just need you to know how much you mean to me.”

He wanted to keep kissing Harold, to show him just how much he needed him, how loyal and trustworthy he could be, how much of an impact Harold had made on him. He would be dead without Harold.

It occurred to him, faintly, that Harold might too, be dead without him.

The thought made him sick to his stomach.

He had to tell him. It was selfish and unfair, and there were countless reasons why he shouldn’t do it, but he needed him to know. He’d die if he didn’t. He’d get himself killed going sick with fear and desperation and ‘ _what ifs_ ’ if he kept his mouth shut, and Harold didn’t deserve to have John’s desperation thrust upon him, but he also didn’t deserve to lose an asset it had taken so long to gain, and he needed this.

And maybe Harold needed it, too.

“Harold, I…”

The door swung open, and Harold was standing there, looking impossibly beautiful in a sweatshirt and pajama pants, hair sticking up awkwardly on the side where he had lain his head on top of Johns, blue eyes wide and blue behind thick rimmed glasses. He stared at John, looking terrified, distressed, almost as undone as John felt.

“John…” he said, and the sound of his name on Harold’s lips made John’s stomach churn, made his heart thud.

Harold shook his head slowly, never breaking his gaze with John. “How… how could you possibly think you don’t _deserve_ me?”

John’s whole body sagged, spent, lost. Harold reached out to catch him, offering a gentle counterbalance as John leaned against the doorframe, staring at him helplessly.

“I… I _don’t_.”

“Oh, _John_ ,” Harold whispered. He reached out, fingers soft and gentle on John’s cheek, and he remembered the touch, leaned into it desperately.

“It wasn’t a dream…” John whispered, and Harold sucked in a soft breath. John was suddenly aware that his eyes had fluttered closed, and he opened them, to find Harold staring up at him like he was ethereal, impossible, like _he_ was the one dreaming.

His mouth worked, like he was trying to speak, but no words came out, so he stepped into John, his spare hand reaching up to cup John’s head, and John felt Harold lean in, his lips part and lock softly with his own.

It was like coming home.

\--

“Harold?”

He heard his name the second time, certain now. John was outside his bedroom, calling for him. No; that wasn’t right. He’d told John to go to bed. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want John to come after him, demand an explanation, force him to admit the truth—because he had once sworn that he would never lie to that man, and it was a promise he could never break—but the truth was too much. It was too hard to believe.

Harold had fallen in love with him.

He pulled the covers over his head; he hadn’t so much as bothered to change into pajamas. All he wanted was to fall asleep, wake up to an empty house and realize that it had all been some terrible, drug-induced hallucination, that John was safe in his apartment with Bear and the storm had passed. That he hadn’t done something so terrible John might never be able to forgive him.

“I just wanted you to know… Nothing will change. Nothing has to change. I won’t—I’ll always be here for the numbers. I swear, I won’t let this get in the way of what we have.”

It was a relief, really, to hear those words uttered from across the barrier separating them, to know that John understood Harold’s fear. He couldn’t… he couldn’t go on saving numbers without John. John was special. There was no one else like him, no one that could fight like he did, that cared like he did, that understood the meaning  behind what they—

“I just… I just need you to know how important you are. You saved my life. More than once. And you… you gave me a reason to live again.”

Oh, god… no, please, Harold thought, _please_ don’t let him think that he needed to do something to repay him. His presence was more than enough. He was a stable hand, a gentle, teasing purr in his ear, a good man willing to risk his life to save others.  That’s all Harold needed from him. He wouldn’t _dare_ think to ask for more.

But what John said next stopped him cold in this thoughts.

“I know I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve to be with someone as quiet and kind and brilliant as you.”

He didn’t… _what_?

Harold scrambled out from under the blankets, rushing to the door. John was still talking, still insisting that it hadn’t been Harold who’d done the wrong thing, that it had been _him_ , like he could possibly do something to Harold that he didn’t want.

“Harold, I—”

Harold threw the door open, to see John staring back down at him, apparently shocked.

John looked… god, he looked broken, crushed, as if he’d already resigned himself to Harold’s rejection, like he’d been bracing himself for it since the day they’d met. Harold wanted to slap that look away. Wanted to kiss it away. Oh, god, at that moment there was nothing Harold wanted to do but make John smile.

“John, how… How could you possibly think you don’t deserve me?”

John stared down at him, a look so fragile Harold half expected him to just crumple beneath his own gaze. “I… I _don’t_.”

“Oh, John…”

Harold kissed him, then. He put his hands on John’s face with all the tenderness he could muster and kissed him, praying, hoping that John would understand. Understand that he deserved the world, and all the happiness within it, and he certainly deserved Harold.

“It wasn’t a dream,” John said, half in wonderment, and Harold tried not to laugh, a giddy, ridiculous hiccupping sound, and kissed him again, on the forehead, on the cheeks, on the lips—he kissed him on the nose, too, and that got him a soft huff of laughter from the other man. A sound so light and perfect, it made his heart leap.

“John…”

John gazed at him, arms stretching out to encircle him, pull him in close like he had when they’d danced, and this time when their mouths met, it was with a purpose.

Living constantly on the verge of death, both men barely recognized the luxury of taking things slow. For John, sex was hard and fast, a necessary expulsion of unwanted energy with absolutely no emotional attachments. For Harold, sex was out of the question completely, after the accident, after Grace, and so too were affairs of the heart. But this, this was different for the both of them. Because now they both had someone they wanted—needed, really—to make happy. Neither was experienced at taking relationships slowly; but really, they’d been in a more committed relationship from the day they’d met than most people were when they decided to get married, so John thought that taking things fast was going to be just perfect.

He guided Harold down onto the bed and pressed their mouths together, open and raw, tongues slipping past teeth and lips brushing lips. His hands worked down Harold’s body, pulling up his shirt to touch the soft, pliable skin hidden underneath. Harold gasped beneath him, his fingers curling in John’s hair.

John pressed soft, loving bites along his jaw sucking his neck tenderly, savoring the way Harold egged him on in whatever he wanted to do. Run light, teasing fingers along his (ticklish?) stomach? Perfect. Grind his hips wantonly against his groin, feeling each other’s growing pleasure through the fabric of their pants? God, don’t stop. Rub his stubbly cheek against Harold’s, like a cat? He loved every bit of it. And John hoarded his tiny gasps, soft pulls, like each one was a rare, impossible gift. A Christmas miracle.

He worked his way down Harold’s body, kissing what exposed skin he could under his pushed up shirt and savoring the tiny giggles above him, before reaching the brim of his sweatpants and pulling at the strings. His breath, warm in the chilly room, ghosted over Harold’s stomach, and he watched the goose bumps flare up around it.

He sensed the exact moment when Harold’s brain connected with John’s actions, and he gasped, both hands grabbing large fistfuls of the sheets on his sides and John smiled, pulling down Harold’s pants and taking out his cock, hard and heavy in his hand. He kissed it, and Harold whined his name, desperately, and John took him down as far as he could.

He sucked and Harold came, and he swallowed a little but it was a surprise, and he’d never done anything like it before so he was forced to pull back. Harold seemed no more or less offended. He’d become practically gelatinous, quivering beneath John and gasping deeply through his mouth, like a startled fish. John laughed, and it was so nice to laugh, to bury his head in Harold’s neck and just breath him in, feel him warm and safe under him.

He’d actually forgotten about himself, until Harold’s hand came up to wrestle uselessly at the button of his pants, and after John helped him undo the button and fly Harold’s hand was around him, tight and warm.

He gasped, panting against Harold, listening to him mumble senseless words, useless words like ‘beautiful’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘gorgeous’ that really had no meaning left to John unless they were directed at the man below him.

He came in a handful of quick, firm strokes, and liquefied in Harold’s arms, just wrapping himself around the other man and reveling in the fact that he was there, that this was real.

Several minutes later as he was coming back to himself, he was aware of Harold stroking his head, murmuring comforting words into his ear, and he felt wetness on his cheeks, like he’d been crying.

Maybe he had.

He just didn’t know how to be so happy.

\--

The next morning Harold woke up in bed, alone.

He reached over to the nightstand, plucked up his glasses, and slid them on. He got dressed, thought mildly that he hadn’t showered in two days and that not doing so in the near future was quite disgusting. He didn’t feel sticky.

His memory of the previous night didn’t coincide with non-stickiness.

It terrified him, slightly.

He crept down the stairs cautiously, the sounds of Elvis Presley’s Blue Christmas drifting up to him from the kitchen. The French doors to the living room were still shut and locked.

Harold poked his head around the doorway to see John, clad in another of Harold’s sweatshirts and possibly a set of his pajama pants, standing in front of the stovetop, pouring what may have been pancake batter into a steaming pan. Bear jumped up from his bed in the corner of the room, galloping up to greet him, but Harold hardly noticed.

John turned around, his eyes falling on him, and there was a moment of unbridled adoration that flitted across his face before he saw the look on Harold’s, and he faltered.

“…Harold?” he asked, fearfully.

Harold dropped his temple on the door, eyes screwing shut with relief.

“Oh, thank god. I thought it had been a dream.”

John laughed, and Harold opened his eyes to see him coming to him, three short strides before he had Harold in his arms, and was kissing him, fervently, warmly.

Like he’d been doing it for years.

Harold smiled into him, and when they parted for breath he was tight against John’s chest, head nestled in the crook of his neck, and John was smiling, a predatory look that didn’t look quite so threatening when coupled with his hooded, loving blue eyes.

“Do you like blueberries with your pancakes?” He asked, huskily.

“Why, yes. Were you going to make breakfast?”

“I was right in the middle of it, actually.”

“Ah, I see. So sorry to have interrupted you.”

“I’m not. You can interrupt me any time you want to, Harold.”

“Don’t think that I won’t, Mr. R—John.” He blushed, hiding his face. “My apologies.”

“Never apologize to me, Harold. Please.”

Harold kissed him again, softly. “You’re going to burn the pancakes.”

“We have a lot of batter left.”

“I’m not sure I trust you, considering what you did to the cookies you tried to make yesterday.”

There was a loud slam and a crunch behind them as a strong wind threw a clump of ice into the living room and against the doors. John’s grip on Harold tightened, protectively.

Harold smiled pleasantly up at him. “I’m all right, John. I know you’ll keep me warm.”

John’s hands ran up to swath Harold’s shoulders, hugging him close. “Always, Harold.”

“Merry Christmas, John.”

“Merry Christmas.”

\--

The storm lasted another three days before the snow thawed enough for them to leave through the front door. They went back to the library, bringing with them the generator and a space heater, and went back to work. It turned out that Ms. Petiski was, in fact, the head of an exceptionally dangerous mob. After they rescued her from the wrath of her ex-son-in-law, John was greeted several times in dark alleys by unexpected assistants in his missions, always carrying with them tins full of freshly baked cookies.

John replaced Harold’s window. He also bought him a copy of _A Christmas Carol_ on dvd, for them to watch next Christmas. He knew Harold had seen him buy it, but he feigned delighted surprise anyway. Harold bought John a watch, and made another attempt at convincing John to wear a bulletproof vest. This attempt involved copious amounts of kissing. It was eventually successful.


End file.
